The Mating Game
by any-otp-will-do
Summary: Sherlock quickly went through his options. He liked John well enough, more than he cared to admit. He trusted him more than he had trusted most people, and he rarely trusted anyone. John had been in the army, so he had seen many horrifying things. This most likely wouldn't scare him away. But, he may prove hard to persuade. He quickly came to a conclusion and acted upon it.
1. Chapter 1

_For your information, I'm not a die-hard Twilight fan. I was simply presented with many descriptions of Sherlock and couldn't get the image of him as an undead out of my head. Though I know he goes out in the day, I guess I'm just going to have to incorporate something to protect him as I go along. I'm thinking this may have more than one chapter. Rated M for sexy times in Chapter 3_

**The Mating Game**

"We're out of jam, John." Sherlock muttered as he looked past the groceries in the fridge for his latest experiment.

"Honestly?" John asked incredulously, "I just bought a new jar a week ago."

"Mrs. Hudson came 'round for tea."

"Oh yes, that woman does love her jam and biscuits." John sighed. "Could you get some today? I'm a bit tired. Didn't sleep well."

Sherlock had eyed John that morning and quickly noted the purple bruises under his eyes, the paleness of his cheeks, and the tiny frown lines around his mouth. A quick survey of his pajamas showed the kind of wrinkles caused when one tossed and turned. _Nightmares,_ he had surmised. Now, in the afternoon, John looked a bit better, but he was still pale and drawn. As much as he wanted to, he really couldn't go to the store. It was too bright today, too dangerous.

Though it pained him to say so, a curt "Can't" escaped him.

"Dammit Sherlock! You, of all people, must see how tired I am. I haven't had a good night sleep in—" He cut off the words.

"A week." Sherlock supplied, knowing he was right.

John chose to ignore him. "Every once in a while you could go to the shop and get food. Maybe it's too mundane for the great Sherlock Holmes! Can't pick up bread, or milk, or jam? It would take less than ten minutes, but oh no! Sherlock has to do experiments on the coagulation of blood after time in the microwave, or test how far earlobes can stretch after being pounded!"

"I've never—"

"Maybe he has to check the decomposition of testicles when in the sun or—"

"I can't go outside because it's sunny—" Sherlock blurted out before he could stop himself. He closed his eyes and turned away. Damn, he'd been able to keep his secret from John for the past year, why had he blown it now? He silently cursed himself in every language he knew, which was quite a few.

"Too sunny? Did I hear you right? You're afraid of the sun? We've been out in the sun before, what the hell kind of excuse is that? _Too sunny, _if I've ever—"

While John was ranting, Sherlock quickly went through his options. He liked John well enough, more than he cared to admit. (_Though he had seen the looks John gave him when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking,_ part of his mind reminded him. _Quiet, I'm thinking_, he told it.) He trusted him more than he had trusted most people, and he rarely trusted anyone. John had been in the army, so he had seen many horrifying things. This most likely wouldn't scare him away. But, he may prove hard to persuade. He quickly came to a conclusion and cut John off.

"It is true, John. I've kept this from you, it seems, for as long as I can and now it's time to tell the truth. I don't know if you'll believe me and I certainly hope it doesn't make you think twice about living with me."

John looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised, "What are you going on about?"

"I'm a vampire, John." There was no point in trying to get around saying it. Sherlock didn't care and John needed to know exactly what he was dealing with.

Not to his surprise, John let out a laugh. "A vamp- Sherlock, what kind of idiot do you think I am? I may not be the _great Sherlock Holmes, _but-"

"Don't call me that. Do you want proof? Fine." Sherlock walked up to John and opened his mouth. He closed his eyes, flexed slightly, and felt his bicuspids elongate. They weren't as dramatic as many people believed them to be, (_movies these days, _his side-thoughts commented) barely a centimeter longer than ordinary, but John noticed. He wasn't as great an imbecile as so many people he knew.

The frown lines on his face deepened fractionally and John's breathing became the smallest amount shallower. At this proximity, Sherlock could even feel his heart beating faster than average. Was he scared of him? (_Maybe it's because you're so close, maybe you should back up,_ his mind commented again. _Right, good idea._) Sherlock took a step back.

John snapped out of his reverie and his eyes focused on Sherlock, who had closed his mouth, opened his eyes, and stepped back exactly 4 and ¾ inches. He seemed to struggle for words, the resolve formed in his eyes and he said exactly what Sherlock expected.

"That's why I never see you eat. You don't eat, you _drink—_Blood. Where do you get it?"

Sherlock smiled without humor, "Mycroft used to fetch me prisoners that had been put on the death penalty." He shuddered. "Tasted horrible. All of them were malnourished and generally had been smokers. That's how I became addicted to nicotine…. Well, now I just get blood from the blood bank. I tell them I use them for experiments and use a stolen ID or Molly gets it for me. I always tell her it's for experiments."

John's eyebrows twitched, his expression bemused. "So, you don't kill people?"

"Only if I have to, only when the situation calls for it."

John sat down in the armchair and looked up at Sherlock. "Have you ever wanted to kill someone who doesn't deserve it? Or _feed _off of them?"

"None that I can recall, I find the impulse easy to control"

"Ah. So why can you go out in the sun? Aren't vampires supposed to" He made an explosive gesture with his hands "poof in the sun?"

Sherlock grinned, "Very descriptive doctor, yes, generally we do go _poof _in the sun, but not when we're full. As long as I've eaten recently, I have enough protection under my skin to withstand the sun's heat. Even if I haven't, I won't explode or anything. Vampires simply have no melanin left in their bodies, hence, no sun protection. My skin would burn very badly, very quickly."

"So that's why you're so pale? Well, any of you… As for the sun thing, can't you just…. wear sun lotion?" He blushed at the question, aware of how silly it must have sounded. Sherlock noted how pretty the red stain across his face looked.

"Seems comical, doesn't it? It wouldn't be enough of a shield by itself. There is no melanin, zero protection. Sun block merely lends an aid to your skin."

"Right," he paused. "My flat-mate is a vampire. Well, I'm off to the shop." John paused again and laughed at how blasé his statement sounded. Still chuckling to himself, John grabbed his wallet and headed out the door.

Sherlock smiled as he watched him leave. _I'm not looking at his arse,_ he told himself strictly. Of course, the only person he couldn't lie to was himself. He turned around as the door closed and shook his head to remove the image of John walking away.

John was done asking questions for now, but he knew there would be more to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John excused himself from the living room after he ate dinner that evening, and made his way up to his room. He was surprised that he had accepted the news of Sherlock so easily. Well, he had always known Sherlock was a nutter, he just never had anything to blame it on. Now he did. When he went to the shop, John spent the entire time going over things that he could chalk up to Sherlock's vampirism. _Noticing everything, heightened senses, being able to think so quickly, not eating, great endurance—I wonder if he has great endurance in other things…_

He blushed at that thought. He had been trying to keep his feelings for Sherlock in check and had been failing miserably. It was just too difficult, Sherlock was too beautiful. John's mind drifted to the way Sherlock looked when he played violin. He stood tall and proud, his arms poised to play each note on the arching instrument. His pale face peaceful as his fingers sang across the strings. _Those fingers, _his mind purred.

"No." He voiced aloud, trying to push away the idea of Sherlock with his hands, not curled around the neck of the violin, but gripping something else, something that was hot and erect in John's pants.

Cursing himself, John stepped into his bathroom and turned on the shower. He stripped himself of his encumbering clothes and tossed them in a bin in his room. The water was warm when he put a hand forward to test it, so he slid inside and stood under the warm stream. He let out a long shuddering breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as the warmth closed over him. He scrubbed his hair and chest and body while trying to avoid thinking of Sherlock, hoping his _problem _would go away.

Shower over, it still hadn't dissipated and John was beginning to get frustrated with himself and his body's betrayal. He hadn't pleasured himself to the thought of Sherlock before, knowing that if he did, he would be surrendering to the fact that he was attracted to Sherlock. Anyone could appreciate his beauty as a man, but not everyone was so impacted as to need to wank off to the idea of him.

Just the thought of doing what he had forbidden himself to do made him throb. _Okay, maybe you can't deny it, _a part of his mind admitted. _There's no reason to make yourself uncomfortable._

_No. _John's conscious warred with his niggling inner-voice. _I do not like Sherlock. I do not find him attractive. I don't want to be with him. _He chanted to himself as he put on a pair of pajama shorts and a night shirt.

Well, he conceded, that first statement was wrong. He did _like_ Sherlock. He was smart and they trusted each other. They had been living together for about a year or so, it was hard not to like someone you live in close proximity to for so long. So, he liked him, that was no big deal.

Then again, the second argument wasn't true either. He did think Sherlock was beautiful. He had already admitted it to himself, so there was no point in denying it now. Sherlock had bold features that really spoke to John. He was tall and pale, with high, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw line. His nose was straight and his eyes were beautifully framed by thick, dark lashes. Not to mention his long pale fingers that made John wonder about other parts of his anatomy.

Okay, yes, he found Sherlock attractive. There was nothing wrong with that, I'm sure even Donovan can appreciate his looks even though she hates him.

The last statement was definitely true. He didn't want to be with Sherlock, he begged his mind not to argue, but did not get his wish. _Yes, you do. You want to go to his room now and ask him questions. You want to stare into his eyes and hear him speak. And when you finally allow yourself to go see him, you'll stare at his lips and long for him to kiss you._

Ugh, why was he doing this to himself? Why did he care so much? Why couldn't he just go to bed and forget all about this?

He was scared that Sherlock wouldn't accept him. He couldn't live without this lifestyle, or even being with Sherlock daily. If John did something to jeopardize their relationship he would never forgive himself. But he did have questions for him, other things he wanted to know about Sherlock. He wanted to go downstairs and ask him, and he was only going to talk to him. It's not like he was going to bombard him or anything.

As he was leaving his room, he did not allow himself to think of just what he would do to bombard Sherlock. He silently padded down the hall and to the flight of stairs, coming to a halt before shrugging and making his way down them as usual. There was no real need to keep quiet, he would be awakening Sherlock soon.

When he got to Sherlock's door however, he came to his senses. Would he just wake him up? Did he have the nerve? Did vampires even sleep? John thought he would just knock lightly, and if there was no answer, he would go back upstairs. The idea of returning to his bed without having talked to Sherlock made his stomach shift lower in his abdomen.

Just as he raised his hand to the door, a voice rumbled out to make John's stomach shoot up into his throat.

"Come on in, John, I'm awake."

He opened the door to see Sherlock with a book in his hands, sitting up and waiting as if he had been expecting John to visit.


	3. Chapter 3 the Happy Ending

_This chapter has smut and I think I'll write a not-so-pleasant alternate ending, if anyone would like it. If you would comment in the review box, that would do nicely, thank you._

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock was careful throughout the day around John. Though his behavior did not change, he was more cautious about watching John's reactions. Sherlock admired John for his acceptance and didn't push his luck by requesting anything out of the ordinary. Luckily for John, they had no case that day, and although Sherlock was put out about it, examining John (_for purely John's sake, of course _his mind taunted him sarcastically) kept him from getting bored.

When John excused himself that evening, Sherlock grunted noncommittally but didn't look up from his microscope, though he had stopped examining the spores under it the moment he had head John speak. Still with his eye to the lens, Sherlock listened to John make his way up the stairs. Sherlock already had the upper level of 221B mapped out in his mind, so he could easily trace John's movements by listening to him walk from the landing into his room, where he stopped short.

John was apparently standing still, and did so for about 3 minutes. Sherlock was just beginning to wonder what in the world he was simply standing there for when he heard a muttered "no" accompanied by the padding of feet into his bathroom. Sherlock made his way into his room, which was directly under John's, so as to hear better. He really didn't need to, but he may as well get ready for bed too. Sherlock heard the squeak of a handle and spray of the shower, followed by the rustling of clothes being removed and thrown into something. _His hamper, maybe? _However, most of his brain was preoccupied imagining John naked in the shower.

Sherlock's body was on auto-pilot as he peeled off his clothing and wrapped himself in a night shirt and a silk dressing gown. He heard John sigh and decided that he was washing up, so Sherlock climbed into bed and picked up the _The Anatomy Of Addiction, _a book he had recently bought. He knew he would be able to finish the 336 pages within the hour, but he wanted to enjoy the book, so he settled in, crossed his legs, and started on page one.

He had been unconsciously keeping tabs on John's movements upstairs: when he turned the shower off, when he began to get dressed, and when he stood still again. He didn't start to pay attention consciously until he heard John's footsteps leading out of his room and pausing at the top of the stairs. _Why was John coming downstairs? _Sherlock was curious, but stayed where he was, his eyes blankly staring at the text in front of him. He heard John walk through the living room and down his hallway. _What—_John's footsteps came to a stop right outside his door.

John was waiting right outside his room; Sherlock could picture him biting his lip with a worried expression. He was nervous, most likely because he was a vampire, or perhaps because he had never seen Sherlock's room before.

"Come on in, John, I'm awake." He called out softly, knowing John would be startled by his voice. Despite his soft tone, he heard John's intake of breath and watched the door slowly open.

John's eyes widened a bit as he took in Sherlock, who was sitting on his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, with his bedside light on and a book in his hand. Sherlock looked back, just as entranced; John's tanned skin was beautiful in the dim light, and as he got closer, Sherlock could even see his pulse quickening in his throat. The doctor looked utterly delicious, and this was not coming from the vampire in him.

The detective's eyes were just raking over John's trim form when John spoke. "I half expected to see a coffin." He laughed nervously.

Sherlock chuckled too, which seemed to calm John a bit. He walked forward a bit then hesitated. Sherlock patted the edge of the bed as if to signal that it was okay. However, understanding John may be scared, the detective scooted up and moved his legs so they were tucked beside his body. John sat down readily enough and Sherlock set his book aside.

While the older man was apparently searching for words, Sherlock took the time to catalogue the way his hair looked in the dusky atmosphere of his room. The sandy texture was smattered with some graying hairs, disrupted as John ran a hand through his hair. He looked over at Sherlock and let out a short breath.

"So, uhm, you sleep, then?" he asked, as if embarrassed.

"Yeah, I do. Not as much as you do, that's why I don't need to sleep on a case."

"Oh." John stated simply. He looked nervous about asking another question, of course, Sherlock didn't mind at all.

"John," the doctor shivered when his name was spoken, "You don't have to be nervous about asking me questions. I understand how this must be for you; in fact, you've taken it better than you really should have. No less than I expected, of course. However, you can ask me as many questions as you need to. I have no objections."

"Well—It's not really questions exactly. Just, from a medical stand-point, I'd like to—" He cut his words short again and averted his eyes.

"Examine me?" Sherlock said, with a thread of amusement in his voice. "John." He put his hand on the man's shoulder, who looked up to meet his eyes. "I have no qualms about it, in fact, it would be interesting for me as well." Sherlock pushed off his silk wrapper and lay down on his bed flat. John stood and pulled a small stool over. He was blushing prettily and averted his eyes, but he dove in with interest anyway.

John began by picking up one of Sherlock's pale hands and inspecting his long fingers. Sherlock could guess what John was cataloguing by past experience and his knowledge of John. His skin was a few degrees cooler than John's, the texture smoother, the pulse less pronounced, but noticeable. "You have a pulse," John commented, a bit surprised.

"Yes. Slower, softer than yours, but I have one." Sherlock replied while closing his eyes. He preferred to feel the sensation of John's fingers stroking up his arm, unencumbered by his other senses.

John lifted his forearm, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's skin. "Hair on arms and under arms, facial hair too. Shaved yesterday?"

Sherlock found John's proximity very distracting. The doctor must have stood up and was now hovering above him. He could feel the heat wafting from the man's skin, which was tantalizingly close to his face. His senses were being assaulted by the scent of John which was pouring into him. It was warm, calm, and enticing. Somehow Sherlock was able to answer the question.

"A week ago," he clarified. "Hair grows slower too."

John gives a soft grunt of understanding, as his fingers continue to slide over skin. They stopped at the apex of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. Of course, the detective knew why right away. The tell-tale twin punctures could be seen clearly. They were positioned behind his clavicle, partially up the slope of his neck. They tingle when John's fingers touched them lightly. He looked down at his hand, which he had unconsciously rested on Sherlock's chest, right beside his heart.

Giving up on stillness, the detective's digits slowly inched over until they rested beside John's hands. John, whose breathing and pulse was picking up, moved his fingers until they met Sherlock's, and they interlocked. John looked into Sherlock's piercing eyes and slowly dipped his head toward the old scar. His lips settled over the pinpricks and he lingered there softly.

"How long?" was the murmur Sherlock heard, though it was muffled.

"I've been this way for about 40 years, though I was bitten around age 9." Sherlock rumbled, "I don't remember too much of life without it, honestly. I wasn't very observant and I didn't really need the memories anyway, they were useless." Sherlock was rambling, but he wasn't quite sure how to stop until John's lips fluttered down onto his own.

That was effective.

Sherlock reached up with his free hand and cupped John's face. His thumb rested on his cheek while his index and middle finger traced the outline of his strong jaw. John pulled back slightly, and Sherlock would have complained, then he saw the doctor lifting a leg and placing it on the bed. Sherlock let go of John's hand and face and reached for his leg and hips instead. He pulled him over and on top of himself swiftly, and bringing him back down into a kiss again.

The first had been soft and innocent, as if there was nothing to it but a brush of the mouths. This time mouths opened and it was about tasting and feeling. It was a question an answer and a sweet confession rolled into one. John, who clearly had more experience in the field, was quick to take control of the kiss, plunging his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, exploring the new flesh and contours. Sherlock was perfectly happy to go along, and what he lacked in experience he made up in raw talent.

John made to shift position, but his movements brought on an entirely different effect. Their moans were broken and ragged in their ears, piquing each arousal, and adding desperation to their actions. Sherlock suddenly felt confined by his silk boxers, wanting to take them off nearly as much as he wanted to remove everything from John's body. His hands made their way to his night shirt and pulled it off, tracing the muscled chest and abdomen that was revealed and leaning up to mimic the movements with his mouth. The resulting friction made John groan and surrender control, allowing Sherlock to move into a sitting position underneath him.

Sherlock was kissing everything he could reach, and John's head was lolling backwards, kept aloft by Sherlock's hand cradling his neck and back. When Sherlock's ministrations reached John's nipples, he let out a soft cry and his hands delved into the dark curls in front of him, made his way down Sherlock's back, and blindly began pulling his dressing gown from his body. As his impatience grew, pulling became wrestling, and wrestling became tearing. Somehow Sherlock was back underneath John who had ripped his wrapper in the back and pulled off his night shirt at the same time. The cotton and silk were flung from his hands hastily as their mouths clashed again.

John quickly pushed his own trousers and pants down, and then looked at Sherlock. "D'you have any…?"

Panting in anticipation Sherlock pointed over at his bedside table where a sleek black bottle stood. It was massage oil, but it was unscented and had no bad chemicals. "That'll work." His voice came out in a deeper register than even he anticipated. It clearly had an effect on John, who quickly grabbed the bottle and flipped it open. He poured a small amount into his palm and readied himself with one hand. The other hand slowly removed Sherlock's boxers. Sherlock watched as John's hand stilled on his cock. He pulled the black silk down the detective's legs and drew the man onto his lap. John was sitting on his knees, so Sherlock was careful to straddle him in a way that would save him from too much pressure.

John slid partially into Sherlock and stopped while the man grew used to the intrusion. Sherlock was overwhelmed slightly, the feeling of John inside him was incredible, but it gave way to another feeling in his chest. He paid it no mind, for John slid the rest of the way inside him and whispered something hot and sweet into his ear. Sherlock knew they were coherent words, but he had no hope or desire to figure out what they were.

John moved deep inside him, gasping his name slightly, and Sherlock whimpered. This was agonizingly slow, so he picked himself up and impaled himself sharply. Taking the hint John began pumping inside of him. They were long and hot thrusts that made his toes curl and his back arch. As John thrust up inside him, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face into his shoulder.

He could hear the blood pounding through John's veins, could feel the warmth, could pinpoint exactly where the streams of hot liquid were flowing. He couldn't follow where he wanted this pleasure to go. John's breaths were getting raspy and hoarse. He could tell the doctor was nearly there, and so was Sherlock, but there was something he needed. Then John shifted slightly, hitting something inside of him that made pleasure cascade through him and shiver up his spine. Just as he began to shudder from orgasm, Sherlock latched onto John's shoulder with his teeth.

His bicuspids elongated and his teeth sank through the skin and muscles into a large vein. Hot liquid gushed into his mouth and the pleasure pushed him over the edge, the blood harvested by two short pulls added to the ecstasy of physical pleasure sated him more than he could ever imagined. He extricated himself from John's collar and smiled to himself.

Then what he had just done hit him.

"Oh, God! John, are you alright? Did I hurt you? Did I take too much? What have I done? I can't believe I allowed myself to do that to you. God, John, answer me, please!"

John looked at him blearily, "What are you on about, then?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply though his nose, "I bit you John. I know you felt it."

"Oh, yeah, that. It felt," he blushed, "Nice."

"Nice! But—didn't I take too much? It felt like a lot…"

"Didn't feel like much, no. Will I turn like you?"

"No, it's uh, well, it's a lover's bite. You'll always have the scar, but it's to keep others away from you. You see, we only get one mate in our lifetime. This is to show anyone that you're already spoken for."


	4. Chapter 3, sad ending

_This chapter has smut and I think I'll write a violent alternate-ending, if anyone would like it. If you would comment in the review box, that would do nicely, thank you._

**Chapter 3**

Sherlock was careful throughout the day around John. Though his behavior did not change, he was more cautious about watching John's reactions. Sherlock admired John for his acceptance and didn't push his luck by requesting anything out of the ordinary. Luckily for John, they had no case that day, and although Sherlock was put out about it, examining John (_for purely John's sake, of course _his mind taunted him sarcastically) kept him from getting bored.

When John excused himself that evening, Sherlock grunted noncommittally but didn't look up from his microscope, though he had stopped examining the spores under it the moment he had head John speak. Still with his eye to the lens, Sherlock listened to John make his way up the stairs. Sherlock already had the upper level of 221B mapped out in his mind, so he could easily trace John's movements by listening to him walk from the landing into his room, where he stopped short.

John was apparently standing still, and did so for about 3 minutes. Sherlock was just beginning to wonder what in the world he was simply standing there for when he heard a muttered "no" accompanied by the padding of feet into his bathroom. Sherlock made his way into his room, which was directly under John's, so as to hear better. He really didn't need to, but he may as well get ready for bed too. Sherlock heard the squeak of a handle and spray of the shower, followed by the rustling of clothes being removed and thrown into something. _His hamper, maybe? _However, most of his brain was preoccupied imagining John naked in the shower.

Sherlock's body was on auto-pilot as he peeled off his clothing and wrapped himself in a night shirt and a silk dressing gown. He heard John sigh and decided that he was washing up, so Sherlock climbed into bed and picked up the _The Anatomy Of Addiction, _a book he had recently bought. He knew he would be able to finish the 336 pages within the hour, but he wanted to enjoy the book, so he settled in, crossed his legs, and started on page one.

He had been unconsciously keeping tabs on John's movements upstairs: when he turned the shower off, when he began to get dressed, and when he stood still again. He didn't start to pay attention consciously until he heard John's footsteps leading out of his room and pausing at the top of the stairs. _Why was John coming downstairs? _Sherlock was curious, but stayed where he was, his eyes blankly staring at the text in front of him. He heard John walk through the living room and down his hallway. _What—_John's footsteps came to a stop right outside his door.

John was waiting right outside his room; Sherlock could picture him biting his lip with a worried expression. He was nervous, most likely because he was a vampire, or perhaps because he had never seen Sherlock's room before.

"Come on in, John, I'm awake." He called out softly, knowing John would be startled by his voice. Despite his soft tone, he heard John's intake of breath and watched the door slowly open.

John's eyes widened a bit as he took in Sherlock, who was sitting on his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, with his bedside light on and a book in his hand. Sherlock looked back, just as entranced; John's tanned skin was beautiful in the dim light, and as he got closer, Sherlock could even see his pulse quickening in his throat. The doctor looked utterly delicious, and this was not coming from the vampire in him.

The detective's eyes were just raking over John's trim form when John spoke. "I half expected to see a coffin." He laughed nervously.

Sherlock chuckled too, which seemed to calm John a bit. He walked forward a bit then hesitated. Sherlock patted the edge of the bed as if to signal that it was okay. However, understanding John may be scared, the detective scooted up and moved his legs so they were tucked beside his body. John sat down readily enough and Sherlock set his book aside.

While the older man was apparently searching for words, Sherlock took the time to catalogue the way his hair looked in the dusky atmosphere of his room. The sandy texture was smattered with some graying hairs, disrupted as John ran a hand through his hair. He looked over at Sherlock and let out a short breath.

"So, uhm, you sleep, then?" he asked, as if embarrassed.

"Yeah, I do. Not as much as you do, that's why I don't need to sleep on a case."

"Oh." John stated simply. He looked nervous about asking another question, of course, Sherlock didn't mind at all.

"John," the doctor shivered when his name was spoken, "You don't have to be nervous about asking me questions. I understand how this must be for you; in fact, you've taken it better than you really should have. No less than I expected, of course. However, you can ask me as many questions as you need to. I have no objections."

"Well—It's not really questions exactly. Just, from a medical stand-point, I'd like to—" He cut his words short again and averted his eyes.

"Examine me?" Sherlock said, with a thread of amusement in his voice. "John." He put his hand on the man's shoulder, who looked up to meet his eyes. "I have no qualms about it, in fact, it would be interesting for me as well." Sherlock pushed off his silk wrapper and lay down on his bed flat. John stood and pulled a small stool over. He was blushing prettily and averted his eyes, but he dove in with interest anyway.

John began by picking up one of Sherlock's pale hands and inspecting his long fingers. Sherlock could guess what John was cataloguing by past experience and his knowledge of John. His skin was a few degrees cooler than John's, the texture smoother, the pulse less pronounced, but noticeable. "You have a pulse," John commented, a bit surprised.

"Yes. Slower, softer than yours, but I have one." Sherlock replied while closing his eyes. He preferred to feel the sensation of John's fingers stroking up his arm, unencumbered by his other senses.

John lifted his forearm, his breath ghosting over Sherlock's skin. "Hair on arms and under arms, facial hair too. Shaved yesterday?"

Sherlock found John's proximity very distracting. The doctor must have stood up and was now hovering above him. He could feel the heat wafting from the man's skin, which was tantalizingly close to his face. His senses were being assaulted by the scent of John which was pouring into him. It was warm, calm, and enticing. Somehow Sherlock was able to answer the question.

"A week ago," he clarified. "Hair grows slower too."

John gives a soft grunt of understanding, as his fingers continue to slide over skin. They stopped at the apex of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. Of course, the detective knew why right away. The tell-tale twin punctures could be seen clearly. They were positioned behind his clavicle, partially up the slope of his neck. They tingle when John's fingers touched them lightly. He looked down at his hand, which he had unconsciously rested on Sherlock's chest, right beside his heart.

Giving up on stillness, the detective's digits slowly inched over until they rested beside John's hands. John, whose breathing and pulse was picking up, moved his fingers until they met Sherlock's, and they interlocked. John looked into Sherlock's piercing eyes and slowly dipped his head toward the old scar. His lips settled over the pinpricks and he lingered there softly.

"How long?" was the murmur Sherlock heard, though it was muffled.

"I've been this way for about 40 years, though I was bitten around age 9." Sherlock rumbled, "I don't remember too much of life without it, honestly. I wasn't very observant and I didn't really need the memories anyway, they were useless." Sherlock was rambling, but he wasn't quite sure how to stop until John's lips fluttered down onto his own.

That was effective.

Sherlock reached up with his free hand and cupped John's face. His thumb rested on his cheek while his index and middle finger traced the outline of his strong jaw. John pulled back slightly, and Sherlock would have complained, then he saw the doctor lifting a leg and placing it on the bed. Sherlock let go of John's hand and face and reached for his leg and hips instead. He pulled him over and on top of himself swiftly, and bringing him back down into a kiss again.

The first had been soft and innocent, as if there was nothing to it but a brush of the mouths. This time mouths opened and it was about tasting and feeling. It was a question an answer and a sweet confession rolled into one. John, who clearly had more experience in the field, was quick to take control of the kiss, plunging his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, exploring the new flesh and contours. Sherlock was perfectly happy to go along, and what he lacked in experience he made up in raw talent.

John made to shift position, but his movements brought on an entirely different effect. Their moans were broken and ragged in their ears, piquing each arousal, and adding desperation to their actions. Sherlock suddenly felt confined by his silk boxers, wanting to take them off nearly as much as he wanted to remove everything from John's body. His hands made their way to his night shirt and pulled it off, tracing the muscled chest and abdomen that was revealed and leaning up to mimic the movements with his mouth. The resulting friction made John groan and surrender control, allowing Sherlock to move into a sitting position underneath him.

Sherlock was kissing everything he could reach, and John's head was lolling backwards, kept aloft by Sherlock's hand cradling his neck and back. When Sherlock's ministrations reached John's nipples, he let out a soft cry and his hands delved into the dark curls in front of him, made his way down Sherlock's back, and blindly began pulling his dressing gown from his body. As his impatience grew, pulling became wrestling, and wrestling became tearing. Somehow Sherlock was back underneath John who had ripped his wrapper in the back and pulled off his night shirt at the same time. The cotton and silk were flung from his hands hastily as their mouths clashed again.

John quickly pushed his own trousers and pants down, and then looked at Sherlock. "D'you have any…?"

Panting in anticipation Sherlock pointed over at his bedside table where a sleek black bottle stood. It was massage oil, but it was unscented and had no bad chemicals. "That'll work." His voice came out in a deeper register than even he anticipated. It clearly had an effect on John, who quickly grabbed the bottle and flipped it open. He poured a small amount into his palm and readied himself with one hand. The other hand slowly removed Sherlock's boxers. Sherlock watched as John's hand stilled on his cock. He pulled the black silk down the detective's legs and drew the man onto his lap. John was sitting on his knees, so Sherlock was careful to straddle him in a way that would save him from too much pressure.

John slid partially into Sherlock and stopped while the man grew used to the intrusion. Sherlock was overwhelmed slightly, the feeling of John inside him was incredible, but it gave way to another feeling in his chest. He paid it no mind, for John slid the rest of the way inside him and whispered something hot and sweet into his ear. Sherlock knew they were coherent words, but he had no hope or desire to figure out what they were.

John moved deep inside him, gasping his name slightly, and Sherlock whimpered. This was agonizingly slow, so he picked himself up and impaled himself sharply. Taking the hint John began pumping inside of him. They were long and hot thrusts that made his toes curl and his back arch. As John thrust up inside him, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face into his shoulder.

He could hear the blood pounding through John's veins, could feel the warmth, could pinpoint exactly where the streams of hot liquid were flowing. He couldn't follow where he wanted this pleasure to go. John's breaths were getting raspy and hoarse. He could tell the doctor was nearly there, and so was Sherlock, but there was something he needed. Then John shifted slightly, hitting something inside of him that made pleasure cascade through him and shiver up his spine. Just as he began to shudder from orgasm, Sherlock latched onto John's shoulder with his teeth.

His bicuspids elongated and his teeth sank through the skin and muscles into a large vein. Hot liquid gushed into his mouth and the pleasure pushed him over the edge. He pulled in mouthfuls and drank them greedily, the warmth spreading the farthest parts of his body. He felt himself grow rosy, and the heady sensation coursing through him was much like being drunk. He smiled down at John, wiping the bloody smear from his shoulder lovingly. Then he noticed that the wound hadn't closed up. That should have happened already, punctures like those don't stay on a live person; they fade to scars instantly.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he looked closer at John's face. It had a look of pleasurable surprise frozen on it. Frozen. Panicking now, Sherlock squeezed John's hand. No response. He felt for a pulse and found none. His eyes became misty and his throat became thick with unshed tears.

"John?" He croaked out desperately. "Please, no! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! It was an accident, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

He buried his face in John's chest, inhaling his fresh scent and denying what he knew to be true. "Please, don't leave me. I love you."


End file.
